


Satisfied

by SmutWithPlot



Series: #McHamilton [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Hamilton/Overwatch crossover, Jesse is bi, M/M, Multi, fem!Genji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: I remember that night... I just might regret that night for the rest of my days. I remember those gang bangers tripping over themselves to win our praise. The night was dreamlike candlelight, like a dream you can't quite place. But cowboy... I'll never forget the first time I saw your face. // A Hamilton/Overwatch crossover, in which #McHanzo must compete with Hanzo's sense of duty and the well-meant mistake of introducing Deadeye McCree to his sister sparrow, Suzume-chan. Will he ever be satisfied?





	1. A Cowboy In Japan

**Author's Note:**

> So, to be absolutely honest, I cried the first time I watched Hamilton and "Satisfied" finished. It hits me in all the right/wrong places -- missed opportunity, fate dancing with mistakes, unrequited love, tragic propriety and duty, things just having the wrong timing and you have to live with it forever... It still makes my heart ache every time I hear it.
> 
> Then SOMEONE (*cough silverxtiger cough*) sent me a fan animated vid of a heartbroken Hanzo toasting at a McCree/Genji wedding, flashing back to Deadlock/Shimada Clan days. It broke me. But I don't peg Genji as gay (I'M SORRY, I DON'T) and although he's a fun character, I feel like McCree knows which one he likes best. (Just saying.) BUT, if Genji had been a girl...
> 
> ...Hey, that's different! So I tweaked it to an AU in which Genji is Suzume (Japanese for Sparrow, I am told - if I'm wrong, tough. I didn't say that, it's just a name, don't question it) and Hanzo does "the right thing" and introduces Jesse to his sister. Much angst and teasing smut to ensue, I am SURE.
> 
> Buckle up, kiddos. This one is gonna HURT SO GOOD...
> 
> Also: Shameless Sons of Anarchy reference. IT'S LIKE HAMLET WITH A BIKER GANG.

"Boss said dress nice. That's what you brought?"

"Hey. I'm broke as fuck, alright? I had to get new tires on my bike. You know, the one I ride around on every day? Go to school with? I get groceries with that bike."

"I got it, Jess, I got it."

I waited for him to leave the room to sigh at myself in the mirror. It was my nicest shirt (which is to say, one of my newest. The only holes it had were in the pits where no on could see, and being as it was black, there were no visible stains), and the only thing I could do was wear my least holey jeans (and even they had a growing fringe at the heel where my boots stepped on it) and my skin, hope it was good enough. Not for the first time, I was grateful I had gone the jacket route, and not the usual vest. It was good leather and had lasted me three seasons already. And it was still a little loose, I could grow into it yet. But I'd washed my hair, making it nice and fluffy, and commandeered a pair of scissors I'd seen around the place to give my beard a trim.

I still looked like a wild beast, a lion dressed in black. There was no denying where I came from, as if my spurs and hat didn't say enough.

I do a turn around, tugging at my pants. And back around. "That's as good as I'm gonna get," I mutter to myself. I pocketed the scissors out of habit, and caught myself.

_Why would I do that?_

...To hide them in the castle somewhere, maybe. Give it back. Yeah.

Fact that I felt naked walking into a fancy shindig without my guns had nothing to do with it.

I slipped out of the room, sliding the door shut. There were a couple other mates of mine in the hall, and they all eyed me with impatience.

"Rodriguez won't be pleased," Joey muttered to me.

"Well, unless he wants to buy me a tux, this is what he gets," I muttered back. Even Joey had a suit that was a little big on him, and an ugly tie that didn't match. Julio looked like a damned guido, and even Horsefeather had a nice doeskin shirt that his mother or sister had probably spent months sewing seed beads into. I looked like the asshole who showed up late to the meeting and missed the memo to come dressed nice. Chains and spurs and leather and beads squeaked and rattled and jangled as we moved together, the murmur of the distant party and hubbub hard to miss. When we rounded the corner, Rodriguez was dressed to the nines in a tux that made him look like... well, a lot more than a million. I've seen some expensive hookers, and he looked a lot better than that. I almost didn't recognise him, were it not for the nasty scar over one eye and his perpetual scowl. That, you couldn't mistake.

"McCree, where the fuck is your suit?"

"This is the best I got, sir."

"You just got paid a month ago. Don't give me that shit. I told you to buy a suit."

"You also told me to make a run to Charming, sir," I said. "That's a long run with bald tires. It was take care of my bike or buy a suit. I figured you would be understanding."

He inhaled, and then exhaled, loud and messy out of flared nostrils. "Come here, let me look at you."

I presented myself, arms spread out, and I did the twirl.

He sighed. "At least the jeans are good. You oiled that skin?"

"Yes sir, I did. And the hat. Polished my boots and shined the spurs, too."

He looked at my hat. And then at me. He debated. He turned to Miguel, his second. " _Miguel, ven a mi cuarto. Dame una camisa por el vaquero._ "

" _Si, senor._ "

I nodded. "I appreciate it, sir."

" _Mira,_ get him the red one." He looked to me again. "You good in red."

I smiled, thumbs in my belt loops. "Thank you, sir."

" _Vamanos,_ " he said to the rest. "McCree, you wait."

"Yes, sir." I backed my happy ass to a wall and waited.

 _That could have gone a lot worse,_  I thought to myself. They'd gone round the corner and through the next room, the din quieting, when Miguel came back. He had a red button-up shirt, good flannel. I peeled off my skin, hesitantly offering it to my brother, and pulled on the shirt. I buttoned it up, and looked to him for approval.

"No no. Not all the way." His fingers picked at mine. "Take to... there."

I undid. "Better?"

He smirked. "Tease of hair for the _senoritas,_ " he teased. "You button it up all the way without a tie, it looks like you borrowed someone's shirt and you're an idiot. You leave it undone, it looks on purpose."

I nodded. "Thank ya kindly." He handed back my skin, and I wondered if I should take it with me or leave it in the...

...Mother fucker was already gone.

I debated. And I decided to bring it with me, tossing it over my shoulder.

xxx

Being a peon in a biker gang doesn't get you a lot of respect from the average stranger. Even the jefes would only know you if you did something good or fucked something up real bad. I liked to think I had impressed Rodriguez (as much as anyone could impress Rodriguez, which usually required a sighting of Christ on a piece of toast or a girl who could do a full split in high heels) but every now and again, shit like this would happen that just ruined it all up for me. It was hard to gauge if he still liked me or not. Going to Japan had seemed to me like a good thing. And then any attempt I made to try and make some cash to buy a decent suit fell through on me. And quite honestly, what I'd been wearing was in better condition than anything in my father's closet.

I followed the noise to the party, but I admit, I had no idea who was what or why. I just knew were supposed to make nice with the Japs and not embarass Deadlock too much, or we wouldn't be making it back home. The help didn't look at me, and I wasn't sure if that was because I was below their notice, or if they just weren't supposed to look at guests. Or maybe I scared them. I found the ballroom, and there was a sign covered in Japanese, but in smaller print it read "Reserved: Shimada Family. Health and long live."

I hid my laugh as a cough. _Long life. But close._

I tipped my hat at the suited man at the door, and he nodded low. But he let me in. Guess I looked just weird enough to be one of them Americans, and they didn't question me. I looked around and spotted a bar, and wondered if it was an open one... I made a beeline over there, and the man gave me thin smile. "You, uh... You do whiskey?"

"Jameson or Jack Daniels?"

I grinned. "Good answer. I'll have a Jack." I waved my wallet, and he shook his head, but nodded to a tip jar. I tilted my hat. "I gotcha." I had trouble remember which bill was which, so I cheated and looked at the jar for a hint. I put some in and shrugged. "I'm still learning this yen stuff, forgive me."

"At least you are trying."

"Ah, they taught me 'thank you'... Gato?"

He laughed. "Arigatou," he said, bowing politely.

"Arry-gato," I echoed bowing as well.

He served me my drink. "Enjoy." I reached for it. "Oh! And... 'cheers'?" He mimed toasting a glass. "Kanpai!"

"Kanpai," I echoed, toasting him.

He nodded again. "You learn quick."

I chuckled. "Thanks."

I looked out at the crowd, the music a queer blend of strings and a plucked harp that was like something out of a kung fu movie. But people were dancing all the same, and I even saw some of my brothers among them. I lay my skin across the bar, leaning on it, my fingers tracing the rough embroider of my patches, and the smooth, oiled leather...

"...That is a nice jacket."

I turned back to the bartender and smiled. "It is, isn't it?" I stood and shook it out, showing him the back. "We all get skins, but I dished out extra for the jacket."

"...Does that say 'dead'?"

"Deadlock," I said, nodding. "Silver City, New Mexico."

"Ahh... Cowboy, eh?"

I chuckled. "I got the spurs, too." I kicked up a heel.

He laughed. "That is mighty impressive. We don't see a lot of cowboys in Japan. Just in the movies."

"That right?"

He nodded. He looked out at the crowd. "Enjoy your drink, because I am sure that quite a few people here will be all over you."

"Well, ain't you sweet," I cooed. I held out a hand. "Name's Jesse."

He laughed, taking it. "Ginei. People call me Gin."

"Bartender named Gin, that's pretty cool."

"It works..."

The bad stopped playing, and the people stopped dancing. All around there was polite applause, and I watched an older man, maybe 50s, maybe older, step up to the stage, a walking stick in hand, and I could see the glint of gold on his fingers and around his neck. A second fellow followed him, a hunched over fellow maybe my age, with rectangular glasses and a suit that was simple, but nice. He watched the older man. Both were given microphones. I took a sip of my whiskey, as the older man looked out over the crowd, his lips a straight line, his eyes sharp and quick. He began to speak, his voice touched with the rasp of age or drink. The squirrelly one followed his lead and translated into broken English. "I welcome you. All. To my daughter's birthday. She is 18 today. She is coming out. A chance to show the world... How beautiful. My precious sparrow is." Before he could finish, the room burst into applause. I joined in. The old man - the host, then - nodded approvingly, looking off stage. Probably to said sparrow. Once it was quiet again, he spoke one more. "I also want to show respect-- special respect to our honoured guests from abroad, Rodriguez-san and his people of good, strong young men, who will help our company spread our influence into America."

 _Oh, shit_. He wasn't just the papa of the birthday girl, that was the guy who we were working for. Spread influence-- yeah, sure. If by 'influence' you meant the white stuff I could hear Rodriguez and Miguel taste testing after we were supposed to be turned in for the night. Or the guns I had been asked to help inspect. Influence we would have to run all the way back to the middle of the godforsaken desert without getting caught. That kind of 'influence'.

I leaned into the barman. "I'm bad with names. What's boss guy's name?"

He looked to the old man, and there was that tenseness in his shoulders that people got when they looked at us when they didn't want to see us. "Shimada. Shimada Sojir. Shimada-san is the head of the _family_."

I gave him a smile. "Shimada. Thank you. Oh-- _Arigatou_."

He nodded. And then he moved to the opposite side of the bar.

 _...Bad question to ask. Got it._  I sipped my whiskey and let him scamper off. Shimada thanked everyone again for coming and hoped we all had a fun time and such. Then some other fellow came up, and translator continued. "And now, Shimada Hanzo for a demonstration. Please enjoy." He about bent over in half to the crowd and hurried off stage. There was applause, and I wondered to myself how many 'Shimadas' there were, exactly. A few men in strange white get ups and funny hats moved things on stage, including what looked like a dart board. But a very small one. From off stage, a man came in, wearing not white, but blue and black. Even from here I could tell it was fine embroidery, with them fancy silk knot buttons on the front. He had those swishy pants like you see in kung fu movies, and even the socks and slippers. He put a fist in one palm and bowed for the audience. The guys in white did the same. When he rose, two of them came to him, one undoing his buttons.

My jaw dropped as he was wearing nothing underneath the jacket. And he was _beautiful_. Not the ridiculously beefy guys you see in the movies or working too hard at the gym. Just _nice_. Like, he could probably kick your ass, but he wasn't going to be a pretentious dick about it. And there was some kind of tattoo from his shoulder all the way down to his elbow, and... Damn it. Gotta say. Got a thing for tattoos. _Especially_ when there was enough skin showing to enjoy them.. He held out his right hand, and he was given a quiver with arrows, long, probably hand carved things, with blue feathers at the end. He held out his left, and the guy in white presented a longbow with another bob and bow, backing away.

...He looked like something out of a movie. I touched my fingers to my lips, wondering if they oiled him down before this and smirked. I wouldn't mind the privilege. He looked like he could take a bucking bronco, too. A lock of hair teased at his cheek, the rest of it tied back in a ponytail, a long yellow ribbon fluttering behind him.

...A fucking ribbon. How could someone look like they could kill you, and yet be so damned pretty at the same time?

He pulled an arrow and notched it. He drew it back, and I felt myself clench, watching his muscles tighten.

 _Jesse James McCree, your gay is showing,_  I told myself. I held the glass to my lips, not wanting to miss.

He let out an illegible sound, and let the arrow fly. _Dead eye_. The crowd applauded, and I tossed the last of it before applauding as well.

...But Mr. Archer didn't seem phased. He barely blinked.

He drew out another arrow, pulling it back slow, his muscles tightening, but they didn't even shake. Another cry, and another shot. This one was right next to the previous one. The crowed applauded again, me as well, but I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. I saw another pair of hands pull a target into the _back_  of the auditorium.

My eyes widened. _He isn't!_  I spun back to the Archer, who tucked the bow over his arm and bowed low. And then... he took a step back, and a bit more to the left, his eyes on the target. There were gasps and murmurs as everyone looked to see what he was looking at, and another man in white stood alongside.

But I kept my eyes on him. I watched him reach back for the arrow, his shoulders relaxed. Like he did this every day. And to be fair, he probably did. He notched the arrow, and pulled back. Gasps and sounds of concern for the audience, but the expression on his face was boredom. He aimed, tilting ever so slightly for distance, and then he let it go.  
I didn't even look. I knew he hit it. Not just from the audience, but because this guy probably shot targets every day that were all farther away than that, but this was a show for the crowd. He stepped back, offering the bow to one guard, and the now empty quiver to the other, and he bowed again, the room going nuts.

But it didn't touch him. I saw him breathe, his eyes at nothing in particular, and then he stepped backwards, as if this was a routine he'd been doing for years, and it just didn't phase him.

I joined the crowd in cheering again as the MC beamed, excited, waving off stage. "Shimada Hanzo!"

 _Shimada Hanzo,_ I told myself. I watched the curtains, hoping to catch a glimpse of him stepping out. That was the kind of guy I wanted to talk to. Or at least _shoot_  with. It was so rare to find anyone who could shoot like I did. I wanted a challenge. I _needed_ it. My fingers tapped on the bar, and I huffed to myself.

I've found my quest for the evening: meet Hanzo Shimada.


	2. Those Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will never be the same. Intelligent eyes in a hunger-panged frame. And when you said hi, I forgot my danged name, set my heart aflame, every part aflame, THIS IS NOT A GAME. // Hanzo is pulled aside by his sister, and sent to fetch her a cowboy. But the man she points out isn't just any cowboy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot of fun to write, AND I CUT THINGS OUT. I will have to do another chapter for the end of it, and the wedding, naturally, happens completely separate. Did some direct lines as best as could be expected, and maybe you'll listen to Hamilton a little different now...?
> 
> As always: not sorry.

"Shimada-san! You truly are skilled with a bow..."

"I thank you. You are too kind."

"Shimada-san. That was a beautiful display. You do your family great honor."

"I thank you, sir. I appreciate your words."

Niceties. How I loathe them.

"Shimada-san!" chirps a voice behind me. "You did lovely!"

I slow my pace, a smirk on my lips, as a delicate arm wraps around mine, the lightly blushing cheeks of my sister peeking around.

"[Do not mock them,]" I chided, speaking in English. "[They keep our home.]"

"[When my brother is a show pony doing parlor tricks, they get no respect from me,]" she answered, keeping the same polite smile I wore. "Even some of the cowboys ducked in fright."

My eyes twinkled. "I told father it would be a happy surprise if we did not make the new target so flashy. He did not take the idea easily, but I think the result speaks for itself."

"I'll say."

She tugged at my yellow ribbon and I complained. "Pesky bird, tugging at my ribbons."

"I notice you did not get back into your suit," she said, eyes pointedly sweeping over the blue overcoat and trousers from my performance.

"You know how I hate layers."

"Still. Fancy party like this, you stick out like a sore thumb."

"Perhaps that is the point," I muse.

She giggled. "Perhaps..."

As we walk into the party, we are bombarded by more compliments - me for my display, and she for her birthday. By the time we made it back to the ballroom, both of our smiles were tight and sewn on.

"[I loathe these things, brother,]" she whispered.

"[As do I.]" I took a sip of my drink, eyes going around the room.

"[If only my birthday was in the winter,]" she sighed, fanning herself.

"[Or the spring?]

She rolled her eyes. "[Lucky bastard.]"

My eyes widened, and I laughed, her lips spreading in a devilish grin. "[Such language is unbecoming of a lady.]"

"Oh, I wonder how you learned that phrase," she muttered.

I laughed, a quiet thing I tend to keep in my nose. My sister leaned to me, and I leaned in.

"...Although I did bother you for a reason, brother."

"Oh?" I sipped my wine.

"Yes..." And she sighed, a longing thing. "I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor."

I leaned away to raise a brow at her, and she bit her lip, eyes wide and begging, fan making the tender tendrils of her hair float in the air like a bird's wings on the wind.

I finished my glass, sure I wasn't going to like this. "Anything, sister."

She clutched my arm and turned me, facing the crowd. "There. By the bar. Do you see him?"

My eyes drifted over the crowd. I found the bar. The barman doing his job, a trio of our men getting drinks and talking. And then, sticking out about as obvious as me, in bright red, a cowboy. He even had the hat, and was leaning on the bar as if he belonged there, and lived there his whole life. He was talking to one of the ladies at the party, her dress lavender satin and silk and lace. She had her fan going a mile a minute, blushing and ducking her head very much. He was close to her, close enough to display his attentions, and yet he did not touch.

My heart twisted. I knew this man.

_"[...And of course, we have some very skilled boys on our crew, local spitfires and the like.]"_

_I was following behind my father, and he was talking with Rodriguez, the scarred man who was in charge of the Deadlock gang that would be our key into the Southwest. Meth sales were rampant in the area, and Shimada wanted a piece of the pie._

_"[And you will be showing us a demonstration of this skill?]" my father drawled, as if he was not impressed. The tapping of his fingers behind his back belied the fact that he was excited to see what was going on with all the_ pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop _we could hear through the insulated walls of the shooting gallery. I had been here enough times to know that whatever was making all that racket was very,_ very _loud._

_"Of course," Rodriguez assured, slipping into his rare bit of Japanese. Always casual or polite phrases, never giving away how much he really knew of our language. "I have one fellow in particular that I am sure you folks will enjoy." And his scarred eye glanced over his shoulder to look at me. He had seen me on display, too. But unlike at parties, he had seen me actually practise. My father did that to intimidate, not to impress._

_A buzzer sounded, and a cease fire was called. Rodriguez opened a door, and gestured us in. My father glided in, me ghosting behind him._

_It wasn't the shooting gallery itself, but rather a raised platform on the wall above it. There was a perch for someone that wanted to, say, practise sniping the target from above, but below us, there was a line where shooters could fire distant targets. There was a man in a tan leather cowboy hat, t-shirt, dark blue jeans and a pair of boots that even had spurs on it. Beside him, another in black pants covered in chains, expensive tennis shoes and a head bandana. As we watched, a third came in, his skin red with no shirt, a tattoo of what looked like a horse shoe and a feather on one shoulder, and the Deadlock gang skull tatted over his right forearm. They spoke in... what sounded like Spanish. I didn't speak it that well myself, but I could guess at it, from what I knew from other Romantic languages._

_"[...How many are you going to do?]" asked the one with chains._

_"[As many as they'll let me,]" answered the man in the hat. His voice drawled, something like the typical American accent I would expect. I watched tawny, hairy arms reach out to the ammo box that the red-skinned man had brought him, and I wondered if he was really an Indian. "[I have not had a limitless supply of ammo since I joined up.]"_

_"[There is a reason for that,]" the shirtless one answered. And then he looked up and saw us. "[Rodriguez.]"_

_They all turned. The man in the hat looked up at us, and really, he looked like a cowboy right out of the movies. Except maybe a younger version, clean-shaven with hair falling past his ears._

_...And then he smiled, a broad and cheery thing. He tipped his hat up with his thumb, and in the extra light I could see he had bright brown eyes. "(Well, howdy, folks!)" I swear, I have heard that in a movie, it was unreal. "(Y'all here for the show?)"_

_"(Load 'em up, put 'em down)," Rodriguez said, a smile on his lips._

_My father looked to me, his eyes sparkling. I gave the barest of nods and we both moved to the railing, trying to disguise our excitement._

_He hollered to the rangemaster for a new target, and I watched him slip fresh bullets into his gun. But when he went to replace the target he was using, the cowboy gestured at him to put it into the next place over._

_"[Jesse James McCree,]" Rodriguez said with a proud smile. "[We call him 'Deadeye'. Our best shot. This man is terrifying, and awe-inspiring.]"_

_I felt my stomach flip. He did not seem terrifying. In fact, he looked welcoming and warm. Like he would much rather help you carry your groceries or give you a hug and a cup of soup when you were ill. He looked the kind of man who would sit on a porch sipping whisky-spiked lemonade and tell you about "the good ol' days" while barking at the dogs to quick fighting in the hard. Yet the way he moved..._

_I watched his hands reach into his back pocket and pull out a pair of metal rings. And I watched him tuck bullets into the spaces of it, until he had them both full. He held one up to us, the bullets glinting in the light, then set it on the next table over._

_"[Alright, I'm ready when you are,]" he announced, going back to the first._

_"What is he doing with the other one?" my father asked, befuddled._

_"I do not know," I answered, smiling._

_A buzzer sounded, and live rounds was called. Faster than you could believe, his hand was up and firing at the target, his right hand sweeping at the ready bullets. At six pops, he dodge rolled to his left, and then he was firing again, tossing aside the empty set up. Another snatch, another roll, and although I could hear the crack of revolver coming open as he slid the new set in, and then the ting-ting-ting of him tossing the set aside, I could not_ see _it, he was so fast. In less time than you could breathe, he was two tables away from where he started, one hand to the side, and the other pointed right at the target, and I almost wished I could see the barrel smoking. He changed his stance, from quick launch posture to a straight standing, boots scuffing._

"Que rico!" _said the man in chains, and the red-skinned man let out an indecipherable cheer, fists high. The buzzer sounded for cease fire as McCree set down his gun, chuckling._

_"(Y'all are too kind.)" He took his hat off and bowed to his buddies, and then he looked up at us. And he bowed again, low._

_We both applauded, and I didn't feel bad about clapping so hard, because my father had a grin on his face bigger than I had ever seen._

_"[That was amazing!]" he said. And he elbowed me. "Hanzo, look. Someone who shoots as fast as you."_

_"I did not think such a thing was possible," I admitted._

_"[He can shoot all kinds of things,]" Rodriguez was saying, as the help fetched the target and brought it out of the room. "[Sniper rifles, shotguns, hunting rifles, handguns... Man can ride a Magnum like it was a lady's gun. But the Colt is his favourite.]"_

_"[He is a real cowboy,]" I said, unable to get rid of the grin._

_I looked down at him, and he was watching us, a faint smile on his face, broad red hands on his hips. I realized I recognized his shirt - it was a picture of Doc Holliday, from_ Tombstone, _twirling a cup. And it said, "I'll be your Huckleberry" on it. I also saw the taught muscles hiding underneath it, damp with sweat, and the tease of curly hair at his neckline. His eyes bored into mine, smug satisfaction stretched his lips._  
 _The door opened and we turned to look. Even the help looked proud, beaming as he presented the target. The head was so blown out it was just one big hole, although there was another for each arm, each leg, his heart and--_  
 _I blushed. "Oh my."_  
 _My father laughed. "He is very funny."_  
 _"[He's hilarious,]" Rodriguez replied, smiling. "[He's one of my best men. I just wish he would stay out of trouble.]"_  
 _"[...They're laughing, that's good,]" the man with chains was saying._  
 _"[That's cos I did a (cock) shot.]"_  
 _My eyes widened, gaze going down, and I saw Rodriguez watching me._  
 _"...In front of the bosses? McCree, you're crazy."_  
 _But he just looked up at us. His eyes flashed in surprise, not expecting to find my eyes. But then they darkened, in a different kind of mischief that made my bones rattle and my heart skip a beat. His lips were less a smile, and more a smirk._  
 _"(...Gee, I think this one speaks Spanish.)"_  
 _The other two spun their heads up to us, and even my father looked to me._  
 _"Un poquito," I said._  
 _Rodriguez chuckled. "[Your boy is very smart.]"_  
 _"Thank you. [I raised him well.]"_

As it had been the other day, I could not tear my eyes off of him. Every finger touching the tip of his chin, tugging on the cloth of his shirt, skin draped over the leather of his jacket. Without a word, I left my sister, and so intense was my focus that none dared to stop me on the way for pleasantries. At the bar, I asked for another glass of wine, and the barman moved quickly to serve me.

"Excuse me, darlin'." I heard his voice, gentle, lilting, beautiful, dripping with honey and charm. And I raised my eyes to look to him...

...And our eyes locked.

Up close, it's a little different. His eyes are aflame, like someone is roasting teriyaki on the coals of his soul. He reminds me of a wolf, hungry, intense. Like he would devour me. I am captured in his gaze, and he moves towards me. I do not glance at the barman as he presents my glass, nor to watch his leather jacket slide across the bar, smooth leather hide and skittering zipper edges. He is in my space, then, a wolf hovering on the periphery, circling its prey. Close enough to let you know he is there, that he is watching, that he is waiting and ready to take you, and that his distance is a thing of his choosing, a grace... or a torment.

"Howdy," he says, and it seems barely a whisper. Not conniving enough for a hiss, but not gentle enough to be polite.

I blink at him, and I realize my heart is racing. There are words I should be saying, but I can't seem to think of them at the moment.

He lounges again against the bar, like a fat tiger would rest on a rock. As if it was his, and he belonged there, and always had. One hand clasps the other wrist, the squeak of leather as he touches his jacket.

...I wonder what it feels like, against your skin, and I want to touch it, to run my fingers over it, wrapped around his body, and maybe nothing else... Or to wear it myself. Thoughts I do not dare entertain. I look to his face again.

And he smirks. "You were that cat at the shootin' range, weren'tcha?"

I swallow hard, but nod. "Yes. I was."

_"...Gee. Creo que eso puede hablar espanol." His eyes glittered, like a cat who was watching a canary. I felt my heart tighten..._

"I apologize for my language," he said, but the dark heat in his eyes and the tug of his lips told me he was lying. "I didn't mean to offend."

"I was not offended," I answered. I tried not to think about how the echoed filthy word lingered in my mind later that night.

He raised a brow, and I knew I did not imagine him coming closer, because I could hear his leather shifting with him. "You didn't look very offended."

I felt myself move closer. "Still. That language is not something I hear very often."

"Would you like to?"

I looked away, certain I was turning scarlet. I found my drink and brought it to my lips. The dark chuckle, soft so that only I could hear it, so close I had but to reach out a little to touch that red cloth, it burned and rattled into my bones, climbing into my ears and then sliding down below, stoking a fire I was usually so good at keeping tempered...

"You shoot very good," I said instead, changing the subject altogether. Not that it helped, because my mind was flooded with him, easy blue jeans and thin t-shirt, dancing with bullets, power ringing out from his fingertips. I had shot a revolver, and I knew the kind of kick it had. It was not unlike an archer, a certain power in the grip to maintain despite the power of launch.

"You ain't too bad yourself." I watched him from the corner of my eye, and his eyes shamelessly slipped over my body. He was undressing me with those eyes, and I had the unruly desire to take off my jacket and let him get a good eyeful.

"You saw the presentation, then?" I asked. His eyes... Good god. He was ferocious. Shameless. Perverse. I could see the sin in his eyes, and it made me want a taste.

"I did," he said, making the two tiny little words a song. His eyes flit back to mine. "You strike me as a man who has never been satisfied."

I felt a lump in my throat. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I answer, looking down at my glass. And then, a warning. "You forget yourself."

But his hand slid towards me, creaking over the leather. A brush of a finger on my sleeve, pressing a touch to my arm. It made no sense that such a small thing could be electrifying, but it was. It made me quake, that this fool, this stranger, this... _cowboy_. A wild and untameable thing, would touch me. Would _dare_  to touch me. And yet, to him, I was nothing. I was just... Prey to a hungry wolf. He cared not. He just wanted _me_.

"You're like me," he said, barely a growl in my ear. I felt a shiver try to escape down my spine, but I dare not betray myself so easily, even as my face turns to watch him. Low-lidded eyes, hiding in the shade of his ridiculous hat. And those eyes turn to mine, and I feel myself quake within. "I'm never satisfied."

"Is that right?" It is a breath, hardly a sentence. I am surprise I can translate into English, even.

And the way his lips twist... I watch them move, slow and sensuous, and I wonder what they feel like. As if he knew, he moved to touch them with his tongue, a red muscle that made me think of another, and I felt my teeth grit, lips turning up in a snarl as hunger rose fully within me. "I've never been satisfied."

...It felt like a challenge. One I wanted to answer. I wanted to grab him by the front of his shirt and bend him to my will. I wanted to see him try to tame a dragon, or ride it like a rodeo cowboy tried to hold on to a bucking bronco. I wanted to know what he tasted like, what those hands felt like on my body, and I felt myself twitch.

... _Calm yourself, Hanzo_. For not the first time, I reined in my dragons, squirming and writhing, hungry beasts. I turned to my glass, a claw clutching at it desperately, and I forced myself to focus on the feel of it under my fingers. The way the light glinted in the reflection of the wine. How it felt pressed against my lips, the sour-sweet taste of the wine. I sought the rice, and followed it down my throat, splashing pleasantly in my stomach.

Above the roasting fires that this cowboy was recklessly toying with.

I took a breath, calming myself, and stood straight, letting my mind pay attention to each muscle, leg, thigh, back, arm, shoulder, the stretch of tendons over my hand. I slid one behind me, focusing on the texture of the satin, and held out my hand to him.

"My name is Shimada Hanzo," I said, adopting a cool facade that I had never needed so desperately before.

"Jesse McCree." He took it, and I held on tight. He did, too. So I was right... He would not back down. I locked eyes with him, giving him a taste of my own fire.

He would indeed be a worthy opponent. I relished the thought.

I let go of his hand, and my mind started coming back to me. _Conversation_. I gestured to his jacket. "That is a handsome jacket."

He smiled, predatory, but willing to play. He took a step back, giving me space to breathe, and picked it up. "Ain't it just?" He opened it with his hands and draped it over his shoulders, turning so I could enjoy it properly.

...And by 'it', I meant the broadness of his back. I wanted to reach out and trace the edges and the seams and the embroidered patches with my fingers, but I kept them locked, clasped behind me. White letters read 'DEADLOCK' above the same skull so many wore, and below it, 'SILVER CITY, NM'.

"Silver City," I said. "Is that where you are from?"

He turned back to me, but he did not meet my eye. "Somethin' like that," he said quickly, taking off again and replacing it on the bar with a gentle click of metal. "We have territory all the way from California through to Texas and up to Colorado and Utah. Even got a branch starting up in South Dakota. Growing brand."

"I do believe that is why we are in business," I teased, taking a sip.

"Well, just you wait, darlin'," he said with a grin. "Whole lot of fun comin' your way."

My heart soars at the thought of this man. Riding through the desert on a hog with this leather jacket and those shoes and that hat with Bon Jovi playing behind. Firefights and duck and rolls, a moving target that might actually show me a challenge. Wandering hands and denim and plaid and...

I bite my lip, smirking as I spy an 'R' stitched at the edges of his sleeves. This isn't even his shirt.

He made my head spin, and my heart dance, and I could imagine all kinds of potential. Teasing words that could slowly, or not so slowly, if he could so easily strike at one of my weaknesses as he already had - filthy language spoken so boldly and loudly as to warrant punishment. Telling me what he wants, enticing my approval without ever being overhanded...

To find someone with the boldness and confidence to stand up to a Shimada was rare and impressive. The arrogance and foolishness to do so in public bordered on erotic. It was something that just didn't happen in my life, and it was invigorating.

...Where was the catch?

"It does sound fun." But my voice said _you_  sound fun.

He smirked, leaning closer, and I turned away, to tease. He let out a soft sound of complaint, and _heavens,_  it was delicious. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to focus on the wine, and not the breath and heat of the man beside me, who had already managed to stir me in ways that I had hidden from most, and to do so with such reckless ease...

I look over the crowd, trying to find my sanity, and my eye catches on a flash of green across the room.

Green like jade. Elegant, beautiful. Good luck when given as a gift. That is why we are all here.

I down my drink and drop it on the bar. He watches, amused and impressed. I indulge myself to reach out and grab the edge of his sleeve, not daring to reach for the flesh.

"Come." I take two steps away, and turn back. He picks up his jacket, draping it over a shoulder. His eyes narrow, trying to figure me out, a brow cocked. He tugs at his hat, but he follows.

I do not dare to look back at him, lest he control me again. Instead, I look into my sister's face, teeth on her bottom lip, a hunger in her eyes I recognize too well.

I know how she feels. Desperate, needing, helpless to stop it. I've had a long time to practise, and I can do it, but my sister has not had to share my pain.

"Where are you taking me?" he purrs, his fingers brushing against the naked flesh of my wrist. I glance over and his eyes are ahead of us, eyeing the side hallway where I had come from, the back passages that lead to the backstage and other hotel rooms...

"I'm about to change your life," I purr back, a smirk on my lips.

"Then by all means, lead the way."

I do not have the heart to correct him. I must do this before I lose all sense and fall under his spell again.

Because I am not just any man. I am the firstborn son of Shimada Sojiro. My people may not think any less of me to take on a man for a lover now and again, but my mother already waits on bated breath for my sister to marry, and for me to find a bride. They want grandchildren. And even if my sister married well, her children will not be Shimadas. I have an honor and a duty to fulfill. It wasn't even as if he was a nobleman, where it would still be a formidable alliance, one powerful enough to forgive the lack of children. He is a mere gun for hire, and a foreigner at that. It simply would not do.

I tell myself this as I move, my mind racing at the potential havoc or bliss or despair this man could cause me.

We arrive at my sister, and she bows, respectful.

"Shimada Suzume," she says. Her eyes glitter, and in her own beautiful English, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

I look to him, and those fires have not gone, but they flicker in a different light. Admiration of beauty as his eyes take her in, hopeful eyes like storm clouds, crimson lips, lightly painted face. Her fan is clutched in desperate fingers. He looks back to me, his eyes glossed over. "Shimada?"

"My sister," I respond, a coy smile on my lips.

And I watch his eyes light up. Although my skill with a bow is definitely a factor, and something must be said for carnal desire... I am most certain he is after me because I am Shimada. It is a smart move to a man who has so little as to carry his only coat with him at all times, the same boots to a party as the gun range, the same hat. He may be able to disguise that with a polish, but I know that is not even his shirt. If he could get a job here in Japan as an emissary, we could take better care of him than his outlaw biker gang, and it would indeed change his life for the better. I would have to be naive to set that aside. Too long we have been a family of honor, and there are always those who want to take advantage of our power, prestige and hospitality. To ask so much for a man I could not produce heirs with? It would be a disgrace.

Maybe that is why I introduce him to Suzume, a safe catch that will still net him what he needs, a boon to our growing relations with the Deadlock gang. My sister will have the privilege of having chosen her husband, something I know she worries about. The timing is right, and our father would be grateful to have her courtship days be short, so that everyone could move on to the getting of grandchildren. Everything as it should be. Honorable for everyone. Nicely done, Hanzo. Cleverly played.

...So why does it feel like I am ripping out my own heart and giving it to my sister?

He takes her hand. A step back, bowing before her, and presses a tender kiss to her knuckles. From scoundrel to gentleman in the blink of an eye. "The pleasure is all mine." He rises, those warm hands enfolding hers, and I watch her melt. I know the feeling.

She steps into his space, and his arms fall into a protective stance around her. But my sister, bold little sparrow that she is, sidesteps and moves behind him. He turn his head to follow, surprised, a faint smile on his lips. I watch her, seeing the spark in her eyes as she beams at me, excited, and she makes a show of inspecting the jacket on his shoulders. She touches it, like I don't have the courage to.

"You are with Rodriguez-san," she says, as if she were very clever to put it all together. "One of our biker cowboys." She continues around him, completing the circuit. His eyes follow her, in awe of her quiet power, how beautiful she is, how she can dance to her own beat and light up a room... She is in front of him again, and he is in quiet awe. She bows again. "Thank you for all your service."

He bowed, too. But his eyes stayed on her. "If it took all of this for us to meet..." He took his hat off, resting it over his chest. Over his _heart_. "It will have been worth it, ma'am."

I felt ill, like I needed a drink. I reached to my sister, and kissed her cheek. "[I'll leave you to it,]" I whispered to her in Japanese.

"Arigatou," she replied, eyes looking to me.

I moved to that doorway, wishing I had brought him through instead. I could even have gone the opposite direction and gone around, if need be. So many ways I could have left with him. Kept him at the bar, talked to him more. Plied him with drink. Found a way into the gardens in the night to do terrible things to him. I could have bullied him into taking me to his room, wherever that was, stolen that jacket...

Someone called to me, but I ignored them, fingers already undoing my buttons. I had to get _out_  of here. It was sweltering, suffocating, and too hot to _breathe_...

I needed a drink. And I needed something stronger than sake.


	3. I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know my sister like I know my own mind, you will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. If I told her that I loved him she'd decidedly resign, he'd be mine. She'd say she's fine, she'd be lyin'... // Hanzo debates his choice and the repurcussions of his own decision...

I know my sister like I know my own mind. You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. Loyal to the very end. No matter what I do, she has hope for me, believes in me. More than I believe in myself.

It is warm, even in the night, the lights of the festivities still running late through the night. My hair ribbon flickers in the summer breeze, my shirt beneath me. My fingers cling to an empty bottle of sake, the contents splashing like warm regret in my stomach, mixing with cold fear and the heat of want. I wish that the moonlight could seep into my skin, strengthen my bones, and give nourishment to my heart, which is... not for the first time breaking.

_You strike me as a man who has never been satisfied..._

His words hit true. And I am baffled as to how a complete stranger could know me in a moment, when it took me so long to realize it about myself...

The duty with which I always cared for my sister, admiring her with a painter's love for beauty, but not feeling the heat that my peers had started to feel even young. A disinterest when others were mad with passion. When I burned, it was with ambition. I told myself the ache I felt for my instructor was because he was a warrior, strong and steady, and I was meant to become like him. And I _wanted_  to become like him. When his feet or hand or rod touched me to correct, I relished it. I told myself it was because the pain was making me stronger, so I could be a fierce dragon like I was born to be. I engaged in harsher, harder training, wanting to push myself. I wanted the pain that was making me stronger. I wanted their barking voices leading me on. I excelled in hand to hand combat, challenging anyone who would dare try to put their hands on a Shimada, devouring the competition. Even my brother had to become a trick and a cheat to best me, because I would barrel through, taking all of the pain they could give, and let it make me stronger.

It wasn't until I met Tenshi that I realized what I was.

Tenshi had been a soldier in our castle. He was a bright and promising young man who had earned the trust and favor of the elders, and when one of the men in our castle guard requested a change in assignment to better tend to his wife and new child, Tenshi was given the new post. He was friendly with the house help, and was generally well-liked. On the rare occasions that it was appropriate for him to speak with us, he was always charming and polite, and never a problem.

Then one day I had been feeling... tense. Frustrate for reasons I could not yet put into words or reason. I called upon the guard to see if anyone would step forward and spar with me, and Tenshi agreed to rise to the challenge. He was not as fast as I am, or as skilled, but he was resilient, and he fought hard. Enough to amuse me, and to help me spend the tension built up in my body, and as such, he served his purpose.

As comrades, we went to the baths together, which meant he could take the task of being my guard as well as my companion, which was acceptable enough. But when we slipped into the bath... What we spoke on will stay with me forever.

"Shimada-san," he said, not looking me in the eye. "May I tread upon your grace to ask a question?"

I lounged against the wall of the bath. "As you were."

I remember thinking his shy little smile was most peculiar. "What we did today... The sparring. Does that happen to you often?"

"'Happen to me'?" I echoed. "How do you mean?"

"That... tension," he said, and his eyes looked at me. They were the brown of chocolates. "That rage and frustration, desperate to escape your bones. I could feel it in your striking."

I clenched my teeth. "I did not mean to scare you."

And he laughed, nervous. "I was not... scared. Precisely. But rather... I feel I understand you a little better. Perhaps... A little better than you might understand yourself."

I met his eyes then, a part of me offended on principle, but the part of me that did not know what to do with my rage listened. "Oh?"

He nodded. "I used to be that way. Scrapping, fighting, doing the honorable thing, to be a fighting warrior... Bring honor to my family." He worried his lip. "It felt like the only thing that made it better. And so I drowned myself in it, not understanding."

My heart tightened. "...Understanding what?"

I remember thinking that it was the longest moment in my life, wanting that answer. "Understanding why I wanted it. Needed it so bad." His eyes begged me. "Until I met my Yoshi."

I blinked. "Your... Yoshi?"

He nodded. "It was not the fighting I wanted," he said, gently. "It was the men I was fighting. Wanting strong men, who could make me better."

But the 'want' he used was not ambition, but... a physical desire. The kind of lust my peers spoke of when they mentioned women.

I frowned. "What are you suggesting?" I asked him, not wanting to understand, to know what he was telling me, wanting to deny how true it rang.

"I suggest nothing," he answered. "Nor am I implying that you, like me, prefer the company of men to women." And yet he was. "I merely say... I understand your frustration, and I know how you feel." He leaned back against the wall of the bath. "I pray you find your answer, and your peace. In whatever form it may be."

I had wanted to rage, to insist he was mad, he was wrong, and to take it back, but he'd been so gentle and kind in how he'd said it... There had been no inappropriate contact, no advances, no unneeded advice... Merely an observation.

Two weeks later, the soldier who had left came back, and Tenshi was no more. But his words haunted me for years.

Out on the night sky, the whistles of fireworks began, the crack of thunder and bright lights interrupting my reverie. I gathered up my shirt as I stood and I turned, watching it, putting the sleeves over my shoulder. There were crowds watching rockets of red and blue and yellow and green, careening through the sky...

With a _tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk,_ I made my way over the roofs of the hotel, moving towards the crowd without rush or even reason, following the call of the lights. When I got to the edge of the last, and looked down to the garden that was now crowded with people. My archer's eyes did not need to search long to find that ridiculous hat, arm in arm with my sister's beautiful jade dress.

And I realized... If I jumped down there now and told her, told her what I was, how I felt, and how badly I wanted him...

Even now I watched his face, the way his smile stretched across his features, the way that leather was draped over her shoulders, a claim she was happily agreeing to, how he could wear red so well...

He made me ache, he was so beautiful. I wanted to be the one wearing his jacket. I wanted to be the one he was talking to, laughing with, fingers entwined. I wanted the heat of those eyes on me, exploring my body, and then I wanted his hands to follow. I wanted to know what he looked like without those clothes, to know how warm his skin was, know what taste his kisses were, hear his voice speak Spanish nothings in my ear...

I wanted him. And I knew that if I swooped down there now and asked my sister to step aside, she would She would be stunned, but she would see... She would see how his eyes burned for me, and mine for him. And she would recognize what we had.

And she would excuse herself, and run away. I would go to her the next morning, drunk off of him, and ask her if she was okay. And she would smile and nod, and tell me she was fine, and that she was happy for me, and she would sip her tea like it was nothing.

And she would be lying.

As the fireworks faded - a show I did not watch, but for the reflection of their flashing against his skin - the rest of the party went back inside. I stayed atop the roof as I heard the music begin again, and I debate slipping into the kitchens for another bottle of sake. My footing hesitates and sways when I am standing still for too long, so I move quickly, scaling the walls into the servants' entrance without difficulty. A servant sees me and protests, but when I look up at her and she sees who I am, she bows low and apologizes.

"I can warm it for you, if you like, Shimada-san," she offers instead.

I debate that a moment, but agree. She sets it in a hot bath as she works, and does a circuit around the kitchen. When she comes back, she wraps it in a towel and presents it to me, face to the floor. I thank her and leave the way I came.

I almost lose my footing on the edge of my bedroom window, but err on the side of inside. I catch myself, and quickly disrobe, tossing aside slippers and jacket and dropping myself into my bed. I gather my pillows, wrapping my leg around a dakimakura, not for the first time wishing it was a someone. For not the first time, it has a face to me, and I pull it close.

"Jesse McCree," I whisper. "If only I were not so clever..."

I romanticize what might have been if I hadn't sized him up so quickly... Letting him tease me, letting him touch me, letting him buy me another drink. If I had dragged us off to the garden, or to a side room, or even back to the castle while everyone was busy with the party... How I could have pulled off the shirt that wasn't his, and slipped my hands over his skin and known him, how his dark voice would have continued to stoke my fires, until I pressed him to teach me, and I let him awaken desires I had not realized, experience pleasures I'd never known...

I drink, and I cry, and when I touch myself, I think of those eyes...

And I know he will never be satisfied. I will never be satisfied.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you've enjoyed my writing, please find me on Patreon! That's Patreon.com/LoonyMoonyProductions, and there's goodies and links to all the other things I'm doing (including a pretty cool geek & gamer magazine and some original work and even ARTS and stuff) and please, if you can, become a Patron. I'm unemployed atm, and I would love to be able to be full time "employed" writing things like this.
> 
> IT'S IN YOUR BEST INTERESTS. AND MINE.


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